


Without Words

by Tammany



Series: Mycroft's Vulnerable [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erotica, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1480447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've threatened for a while to do a "Greg is Vunlerable" to go within the "Mycroft's Vunlerable" series. It finally arrived. Got the right story at last. </p><p>This is character study, fairly explicit erotic sequence, emotional hurt/comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Words

Mycroft knew there was trouble when Greg didn’t phone to let him know he’d be late. No text. No nothing.

Greg was a divorced man from what had once appeared to be a civilized, stable marriage. He’d been the kind of husband who had years since trained himself to the phone call home that at least gives a wife the chance to say “so sorry,” and decide what to do about the dinner sitting in the oven…and, yes, Greg’s wife had once been the sort to make dinners and keep them warm.

“It wasn’t all bad,” Greg had said, quietly, the one time Mycroft had risked asking. “ _She_ wasn’t all bad. We gave it a good try.” His voice alone had told all Mycroft needed to know about two basically decent people dying in sight of water, unable for reasons they themselves did not understand to reach the oasis and cup up the sweet, sweet water from the spring.

Not that Greg would put it that way. He wasn’t one for fancy words. It was odd, really: of the two of them he was the one who read poetry, sang along to every song that came on the radio, fell crazy in love with the kind of writer who lured the reader along through mirages of image and illusion. If you hit the right button Greg could quote most of “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” He could recite the first passages of the actual book “Bambi”—“He came into the world in the middle of a thicket, one of those little, hidden forest glades which seem to be entirely open but are screened in on all sides…”

Greg’s own words were usually simpler, and far fewer. So he’d sighed, and said again, “It wasn’t all bad,” and it had to cover years of failed effort on the part of two people who were never able to make it work, no matter how they wished they might.

Still, he might be a man of few words, compared to Mycroft, but he was not a man of no words, and the words he had included, “Running late, bitch of a case, no idea when I’ll be back. Don’t hold dinner.” He used words like that well, and reliably. So when Mycroft found himself sitting in his own clean, orderly office hours after Greg should have arrived, with their dinners slowly turning to jerky in a slow oven, he found to his dismay that he was afraid—just as he’d been afraid so often when Sherlock went on one of his little vacations from chemical sobriety. Or, just as bad, the times his brother had simply gone rogue vigilante, hunting someone dangerous through someplace lethal, leaving Mycroft to write epitaph after epitaph in his mind, waiting for word to come in.

At least the one time he’d had to use one so far, it had been blessedly fake.

He rose and poured himself a scotch and forced himself not to call the Met, not to call Anthea and ask her to call the Met, not call Sherlock to see if he was at the Met or knew anything about the Met…

He put on a recording of a storm—no informational content for his mind to get snared in. No webs of meaning to tangle him in frustrated awareness like a fly in a spider web. Just a storm off the Orkneys, wind roaring, waves crashing, rain pounding down somewhere he wasn’t. He sipped the scotch and imagined the waves: great breakers and combers, fringed in tattered white, water black and shining green, the curves outlined by glowing plankton.

He pushed the image of the drowning man out of his meditation.

The drowning man returned, along with a catch of Eliot (This is your card, she said, the drowned Phoenician sailor) then used Eliot’s own allusion to jump to the Tempest, (Full fathom five thy father lies. Of his bones are coral made. Those are pearls that were his eyes…) to Dylan’s dreamers seeming to drift Under Milkwood, ending at last with Stevie Smith’s poor fellow, not waving, but drowning…

The drowning man was back, tossed by the waves. He looked like Lestrade.

Mycroft, unable to bear it any more, imagined the poor man drawn up by gentle hands, cradled, dried, tucked up in his own waistcoat pocket to nestle warm beside the pocket watch. He scowled. He tried to avoid whimsy, but cold, wet, terrified images of Lestrade were too much. He slipped out his phone and pondered. To call, or not to call. Or a text—though by now he was desperate to hear Lestrade’s voice, even tired and weary and worn.

He was still staring when the door cracked open, and his lover—his new, precious, undreamed of lover came in, looking like Mycroft felt after a week speaking Pashtun in caverns that smelled of goats.

“The last time I looked that fashed I’d spent fifteen hours straight negotiating with an Afghani tribal chieftain for rights to the use of a trading pass. He won. I didn’t.”

Lestrade didn’t even jump. He turned, looked at Mycroft with tired, dark eyes, then swiveled back toward the door.

Mycroft was up and moving before Lestrade could touch the knob. “Eh-eh-eh, sorry, love, sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“Get back,” Lestrade growled, not even looking up. “Just…back.”

Mycroft stopped where he was. He was MI6. He didn’t mess around with agents and cops who sounded like that. It did strange and unpleasant things to your life expectancy. “Lestra… _Greg. Greg?”_

“Just—stay back. I’m ready to kick something. I’d rather it wasn’t you.” He started to pull the door open.

Mycroft’s hand was splayed flat and his weight leaning before the door could even crack open. “Kick if you have to…I’ve got hard shins and advanced training.”

Lestrade glared at him, then blew…temper going off like shaped charges taking down an entire mountain side. It was an inarticulate roar—wordless, furious, miserable… The rumble built, rose in a long, slow crescendo, crested, broke with a snarling growl, settled—then he sucked air down deep, his sturdy, cobby chest filling before he blew again. For an eight of a second Mycroft thought he was going to swing a huge, blind roundhouse blow at him—but Lestrade recalibrated even as he swung, and smashed the door. It was a skilled blow by someone who’d long since learned to value his knuckles too highly to actually fist the kind of door owned by The British Government. Doors owned by The British Government did not surrender to human knuckle bones.

Another roar, then Lestrade did kick—a solid kick as well chosen and placed as had been his previous -blow. No broken toes were going to result from this attack—but, oh, Mycroft thought, an enormous amount of adrenaline was going to be spent.

CRASH...”Stupid…” CRASH…”Stupid…” CRASH “STUPID EXCUSE FOR A GODDAMNED POLICEMAN. MORON!” CRASH… “IDIOT!” CRASH “PISSY LITTLE GOBSHITE!”

On and on—kick, curses, kick, insults, kick…

 

The anger, Mycroft thought, was brilliantly communicated. The context? Not so much.

He considered the benefits of going to make tea, but right or wrong, his suspicion was that on some level Greg wanted someone to watch this vast, furious hurricane of rage. So rather than leaving the room, and leaving Lestrade to rage in peace and privacy, he stood, quietly, witnessing.

A few more belling, baying curses, a few more kicks—and Greg stopped, leaning wearily against the door, face buried in crossed forearms. His overcoat hung limp.

How Greg had ever managed to find an overcoat so very much the antithesis of Sherlock’s stylish, elegant, flattering Belstaff Mycroft would never know. The poor thing always seemed a bit dejected and hopeless, as though it knew from the moment of its fabrication that it was a complete fashion-fail, and from the instant Lestrade first put it on that it could only display its owner in the least flattering light. Lestrade’s overcoat was the sort of thing banned from psych wards, for fear it incite suicidal thoughts in the residents.

Mycroft loved that stupid, gloomy coat to pieces—only slightly less than he loved the man it contained. He edged forward and stroked both on the shoulder, saying nothing. He was startled when, in response, Greg’s stance shifted subtly, his already slightly blown breathing hitched, and the air seemed suddenly charged, as though ionized by an incoming storm.

He swore, internally, scrambling to try to think through logically things he knew quite well “normal” men his age understood nearly reflexively, combining experience and empathy and intuition in ways that let them know what to do and how to respond. Mycroft didn’t know. While socially better than his younger brother, and more sexually experienced, he was, he thought, perhaps even less experienced in emotional intimacy.

His own instinct, faced with Greg’s anger, would be to talk—ask questions, develop models of what had happened, formulate strategies to deal with whatever ailed his partner. Words, words, words.

Greg, though, was not Mycroft.

Greg was moving from anger to arousal at the mere touch of a hand…flashing from passion to passion, held back only because… Because why? Because he was Lestrade, and Mycroft was Mycroft, and Lestrade knew Mycroft would not understand—would hunger for words.

A brain often considered the most coldly rational decision-making system in the Western world reached a conclusion.

Mycroft drew in his breath, and, with a twist and a shift, fell into place against the door of the flat, pressing close against the line of Lestrade’s arms, pushing fiercely against his shoulder. “Budge up and let me in.”

Lestrade’s head rose, and dark eyes glared at him, angry and hungry at the same time. “Mike…”

“Shut it.” He tugged furiously at Lestrade’s coat sleeve, in what he knew was the futile attempt at moving Lestrade’s arm to make room for him: only Lestrade could shift and pull Mycroft into an embrace. That didn’t mean Mycroft wasn’t devious enough to try in spite of that, finding a non-verbal way to communicate his goals.

Lestrade frowned, then complied, one arm scooping Mycroft and drawing him into the space under the tense arc of his body. He nuzzled Mycroft’s neck, grumbling, “Sorry. Bitch of a day. Gimme a mo’ and I’ll be over it.”

“Oh, do shut up,” Mycroft growled back, and attacked his mouth, aiming for a proper, deep kiss. To his satisfaction he achieved one—and felt Lestrade hesitate, hover—and then lean in, suddenly alive and fierce and possessive, arms dragging Mycroft close, mouth piratical, intent on pillage and plunder.

Mycroft managed to find space for one small, panicked thought that he’d never done sex like a storm at sea before…never done anger sex as part of a couple, never done sex to vent, never done sex as a release of anguish…not this way. Not when it mattered. Not when it was…personal. Hell, he’d just begun to manage intimacy. Intimate turmoil? This kind of near-violent tempest?

He was determined, though—hotly determined, with a focused commitment his PA would have recognized and responded to with quivering efficiency. Mycroft, in such misery, would need words—words, time, patience….

Greg Lestrade did not.

Mycroft Holmes with a goal was nothing if not effective. His hands were already finding Lestrade’s shirt-buttons, and seconds later he was peeling back a triple-layer of coat, suit jacket, and shirt, the whole dropping to the floor with a heavy shush. He probably wouldn’t have been able to maintain contact for the ongoing kiss if Lestrade hadn’t resolved that problem already, hands curling around Mycroft’s skull, curving over the nape of his neck, as strong as iron.

He slid his hands up, found Lestade’s clavicles, and pushed, twisting his head just enough to get his mouth clear. “Shoes,” he growled, tapping against Lestrade’s feet with one toe. “Off.” Then he let Lestrade reclaim him, feeling as the other man kicked off well-worn brogues. Mycroft’s hands shifted to Lestrade’s belt-buckle, then. Mycroft was good at manual dexterity and the visualization of complex physical systems…and just as good at couture—high, low, and in-between. His fingers found Lestrade’s fly, slipped the zipper, and in seconds his partner was bare…bare and pressing tight against him.

It was tense, and claustrophobic, and Mycroft wasn’t sure if he was in sync or not. He was just a tad too tall for this—Lestrade pressing him against the door left the other man having to tiptoe a bit, even as Mycroft slumped to bring them into alignment. Still, it was hot… Lestrade against him, pressing as tight and as hard as he could go, trusting the door to hold that much weight and leverage. The older man rocked against Mycroft’s hip, seeking contact, seeking friction, even as his mouth moved over Mycroft’s face and neck, nibbling, browsing, nuzzling. His hands slipped around Mycroft, forearms pressing into the points of Mycroft’s hips, hands cradling his bum, fingers exploring along the seam of his trousers, heading down and in. Mycroft gasped and whined and groped for Lestrade’s rutting cock, cupping over it, adding strokes and slow, pulsing massage at the base.

He was crushed so tight. Lestrade had the advantage, the leverage, and he pushed hard against his partner, leaving little room to maneuver. Mycroft wavered between reactions. He’d trained too long not to have an impulse to defense—this was too close to violence, without actually crossing the line. He suffered the urge to twist, roll a hip, nail fingers into nerve clusters… He refrained. The act of restraint was, in its own peculiar way, both claustrophobic and erotic. His lover was overwhelming him, and he was permitting it—an act not of submission, but of grace and gift. It was a different kind of power.

Then there was the pressure. He felt like magma, below the earth’s surface, pent inside the volcano, threatening to break out in rivers of fire.

Lestrade’s cock fit his hand, occupied it, filled it. The faint seep lubricated the heel of his palm, allowing the rock and stroke to turn into slip and slide. Lestrade gasped, growled. His hands pressed Mycroft’s pelvis forward. Mycroft’s hand was pinned between his own hip and Lestrade’s.

Lestrade pulled them closer together still, then froze, and husked, “Don’t want to move. Don’t want to look for lube.” There was a question implied but not stated…

“Thighs? Bum?”

Lestrade’s head bowed, forehead to the cresting line of Mycroft’s shoulder, face buried in the turn of his chest and throat. He nuzzled against the soft wool of Mycroft’s waistcoat. “Don’t mind?” He sounded small and lost, all of a sudden, and unsure.

“Don’t mind at all. May want to de-pants me, though…” Mycroft found himself smiling fondly as he brushed his face against the cropped nap of silver-dapple hair. He toed off his shoes, and helped as Lestrade found belt, suspenders, fly. His partner’s fingers hooked into the waistband of his pants and pushed the entire cocoon of fabric down, then, gently but inexorably, gripped his waist and turned him.

Mycroft gave himself a moment to set his stance: legs pressed close, their angle chosen to provide both a tight haven for Lestrade’s thrusting cock and leverage to hold his place. He spread his hands against the wood façade of the door, lay his cheek against the oak grain.

“Ready…”

Lestrade’s cock slipped between his thighs, and the man surged against him, groaning with it. His head pressed against Mycroft’s shoulders and the nap of his neck. He bit gently into the upper line of his shoulder, tugged playfully at the wool waistcoat. One forearm bound Mycroft tight against his lover. The other hand slid down, found Mycroft’s cock.

“Sorry, love,” Lestrade murmured. “Hadn’t even checked to see if you were keeping up…”

“No apologies,” Mycroft murmured back, voice scolding but gentle. “All is well, my dear…”

Or he tried to say that. He got almost as far as “well,” before his voice fragmented, Lestrade’s hand teasing arousal quickly and firmly.

“Uh…”

Soon there were no words from either. Lestrade matched stroke to thrust, nip to nuzzle. Mycroft hovered in a daze, caught up between the oddest sense of bondage and of freedom, of giving, and of being given to. He could feel the slip of Lestrade’s cock, not really high enough to add much to the erotic friction for Mycroft, but somehow crucial in spite of that. His mind knew his lover’s pleasure, and was pleased. He gave that pleasure voice, moaning with it, letting Lestrade know his own contentment with their lovemaking. He thrust against Lestrade’s palm, feeling as the contact turned moist and slick, feeling the orgasm build, threatening to erupt.

“Close,” he gasped. “Close now…”

“Good.”

“Need time?”

“No. Come for me. Please God, come hard…”

He did, and felt Lestrade follow, howling, behind him.

They leaned, then, together, panting against the door. Mycroft laughed.

“Makes me glad I invested in a steel-core security door with a steel frame,” he said.

“Uh…” Lestrade chuckled, a bit giddy with it. “Damn. That was…damn.”

“Succinct. But, yes. Damn.”

Lestrade tiptoed, pushing hard against Mycroft’s back as he stretched to reach his earlobe. He nipped, and murmured. “Very hot, love.” Then he eased back, letting chill air slip between them.

Mycroft turned, wrapped his arms around his lover’s waist, and kissed him, taking time for tender relaxation. “Likewise. But now—“

“Dinner?”

Mycroft snorted. “By now dinner’s mummified leather. We’ll have to order in or make eggs and a salad, or something like that. No—now it’s shower time.” He pushed gently, guiding them both toward the bathroom.

It only took a few minutes to get out of his shirt and waistcoat, and to toe off his socks. Then he joined Lestrade under the pounding water. It was hot as hell, and the water pressure was good. Steam rose around them. They soaped separately, only taking the occasional moment to touch, to smile. Only after they’d both washed and rinsed did Mycroft pull Lestrade close and say, “Now…. What was all that about, love?”

Lestrade leaned against him, arms locking tight. “Had to shoot a crooked copper today. Idiot was working with one of the gangs, helping them dispose of execution kills. Doing…doing some of his own. We figured it out; we took the time to catch him at it. Knew going in that it might go to hell, but we had to have clear proof what he was doing. Team went in armed.” He didn’t talk then, just hung on. It was at least five minutes before he finished, saying softly, “Had to tell his family, after. Tell them their Da didn’t die a hero after all.”

Mycroft stroked the wet, crisp hair, and sighed. “Oh, love,” he said. “Oh, my dear love…”

Beyond that, he had no words.


End file.
